Flash of Gold
by HinoteRyou
Summary: Aurelia Lyons is an Engineering genius. Top of every class and winner of several Royal Genius grants. She's also gone... this could be interesting.    -Chapter one has been re-written, I prefer it this way :D-
1. It's all about Auleria

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock is the belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. Trust me, if he belonged to me I'd do bad, bad things to him ;)

**Flash of Gold**

Aurelia Singh used to be called Sandra, after her mother. Sandra Singh, dull and reliable. There was a certain ammount of arguements about her name after... well, after what happened.

Bryanne Singh overruled her grandparents. If she was going to raise this child, then she would be Aurelia, the golden child, the brilliant child that could build a working toy car from Skalectrix by the time she was four and a half years old (granted, the wheels stuck a bit and it tended to tip over and lose parts on any surface rougher than the table top, but it was still a car!)

Because Sandra (the original) Singh, was a coward and did not deserve a daughter who was brilliant, intelligent and sweet, and she most certainly didn't deserve one who was strong, relentless and brave like Bryanne, but of course Bryanne was too modest to admit that.

* * *

Auriela means golden in Latin. When Bryanne saw her, sickly and pale, a little three year old with fire in her eyes she thought "This girl is pure gold". She was not a girl who should be called Sandra.

Bryanne means strong, though she's not sure in which language. Her father named her, for what he wanted her to be. He was never an optimist, and their mother, Sandra, was never anything but a coward. Funny that he should love her, really.

David Singh was very brave. And very kind. And handsome in gentle giant, dad sort of way, from what Bryanne remembers anyway. He just wanted to help people, and watch his children grow up in a safe world. How he thought he would ever achieve that, I'm not sure. Either way, he was blown to pieces for his trouble.

Sandra is gone.

* * *

Aurelia disappeared from her best friend's house, the night of July the 14th, 2009. It was an uncommonly hot evening in the South West of England and they had left the window open to allow a passage of wind. Kathryn, Aurelia's best friend, hadn't even woken, and her room was on the second floor of a house in one of the more crowded areas of Horfield, Filton. The whole street knew the family very well and no-one had seen anything at all.

Aurelia simply vanished off the face of the earth. But she wasn't the first, and she wouldn't be the last.

* * *

In May of 1989, Brian Adam Andrews disappeared from the University of West England in the middle of the afternoon while walking from his car to his Advanced Mathematics class. He was 20 years old.

In January of 1990, Sam Marcus Addams disappeared walking home in the early hours of the morning from Manchester University, where he studied Bio-engineering. He was just shy of 30 years old.

In June of 1999, Ana Olivia Harold disappeared from her student flat in Bradley Stoke somewhere between 12 and 9 am. She studied Medical Science at the University of Bath and was top of her class. She was 22 years old.

In July of 2009, Aurelia Carys Singh disappeared from her best friend's house, sometime between 3 and 11 am. She studied Advanced Engineering and Advanced Physics at the University of West England. She was the youngest, at only 18 years old.

There where many more, before and after. People like them had been vanishing since the late 70s. And yet there was no case, open or closed, anywhere. In fact, there was nothing.

* * *

"Her father died in Afganistan" John Watson unlocked the door of number 221b Baker Street. His flatmate swept past him. "He was a hero. He saved an entire convoy from a roadside bomb by throwing himself onto it. We owe his family this much"

See John Watson. His soft looking face and gentle smile, mirrored in a strange way by his soft looking block grey, v-neck jumper, to anyone but Sherlock Holmes he'd look more like someones favorite uncle than a military man, than a man who killed other men for Queen and country.

And then there's Sherlock Holmes himself. Tall, icy, and handsome but with a slight... something, that you can't quite put your finger on, and yet it forces you to recoil slightly. Perhaps it's the look in his eyes. Like all that's stopping him from tearing you apart , not for any perverse reason, just to see what makes you tick, is a faint but ingrain sense that it might not be morally right, and curiousity as to what you'll do next.

"John, I owe the man nothing" he answered as he swept up the stairs in his suit and long coat, like a well dressed bat. "No one ever requested my opinion on it, and in return I never asked them to go"

See John Watson. It's quite sweet how he grits his teeth, holding back what would have been any normal persons response of "Oh, fuck off you pompous git". Anyone who lives with Sherlock Holmes for an extended period of time is not normal.

* * *

Watch Bryanne. She owns the street. She is hard and sharp like a woman made of steel. She walks like an avalanche, unstoppable. Even though she's short, hell, she's tiny (5'1 if she's an inch) larger people bounce off her or move around.

But for all her confidence, deep down she's nervous. Someone really watching, and I mean _really_ watching, would notice that she keeps glacing over her shoulder. Subtly, maybe, only when she rounds a corner. But she's scared. Terrified.

Bryanne means strong, though she's not sure in which language. In times like this, it provides little comfort.

* * *

"How much?" John Watson reeled slightly, but Sherlock seemed unimpressed, rolling his violin bow in his hands.

"A hundred thousand" She repeted. "Half now, and half later. And all you have to do is find her." Bryanne was not rich, but she had savings. Like a squirrel she obsesively store and saved every penny she could spare since she was 17 years old, building a safety net of cash and clever investments around herself, in preparation for a winter that never came.

Until now.

John looked from the girl in front of him, short, tired, her eyes red and her skin pinched from nights upon nights of restless sleep and bad dreams, but still quite beautiful (in the way that a broken doll is still beautiful, twisted and broken and pure), to his roommate, who could care less. He made up his mind.

"We'll do it" He said.

Sherlock almost dropped his bow. "What?"

* * *

Aurelia wasn't sure where she was. She was tired and confused and the world seemed to be slipping away.

She didn't understand the white walls.

Or the stiff bed that was more like a plank of wood.

Or the meals delieved three times a day, just as she was beginning to feel a bit better.

But look, here's an engine.

All in pieces on the plain, cold stainless steel table.

The table is bolted to the floor.

The floor is plain, cold concrete.

Aurelia understands engines.


	2. Strange happenings in Brizzle

**I don't own Sherlock, umkay?**

**Damn, that's fast**

Sandra, the first Sandra, the original, was very small curled up in the hospital bed. She was thirty-seven years old and she was holding a baby in her arms. She looked scared, almost like she was about to bolt. All that seemed to be holding her back was David's hand, softly placed on her shoulder.

"She's beautiful" He whispered, breaking the silence. Sandra jumped. "What shall we call her?"

She looked up, down and around the room. She looked towards her husband, perched on the end of the bed. "Call her whatever you want" She said, finally, passing her to him. She rolled over and fell asleep.

They put the name 'Sandra' on her birth certificate, but they never really talked about it.

Three months later, David was shipped off. He came back a very different man. He was in a jar, for a start.

* * *

"This is Aurie's room" Bryanne pushed open the door.

"Has there been a robbery?" Watson asked. Completely apposed to the spotless flat, this room was a state.

Bryanne blinked, slowly. She hardly ever noticed the mess anymore. She used to constantly nag Aurelia about the state of her room, and eventually managed to get her to start bringing the cups out after only three days. That was a triumph in her books. "No" She answered.

Bits of metal and odd, broken tools were scattered all over the small floor space, strange things in glass jars cluttered up the windowsill.

Someone had, in lipstick, eyeliner and felt tip pen, scrawled a design for what appeared to be a fighter jet engine on the full length mirror, and then filled the spaces around it with doodles of cars and things like "zooooooom!" and "bang!"

A pile of carefully shreaded engine filters hung from a lamp, looking for all the world like a very old cat that had stopped for a snooze just as it was about to ponce on someones head while they slept.

Thousands of tiny designs had been scored into the floorboards. Sherlock lifted his foot experimentally. Sure enough, he was standing on quite complex pictures of the wing of a bird, an electric engine and a mad scribble where someone had obviously made an uncorrectable mistake.

Even the bed sheets were covered in writing, in permenant red, black and blue ink. There were pens in those colours on the bedside table, in case whoever "lived" (and I use this word in the loosest sense possible) in that room ever needed to attempt to draw a dream.

Sherlock smiled. This one might be interesting after all.

* * *

"How long?" The voice was clipped and educated, and slightly Americanized. We'll call him Mr A.

Mr A was one of those men who would have loved, _loved_, to have been like those secret agents or master criminals you seen on the telly, with impressive gadgets and ach-enemies.

To his imense displeasure, he had to make do with a Blackberry (not even an IPhone!) and Paul, the man next door who once let his dog bark all night.

"Seven minutes fourty eight seconds" Answered his companion. He was far more happy with his lot in life, and spoke in a soft Welsh accent. He'll be Mr B.

Mr B _did_ have an IPhone, much to Mr A's annoyence, though to be fair he'd had to buy it himself. He also got on quite well with the family next door, and often went around for barbeques.

None of which matters, of course, but it's always nice to know.

Mr A slowly let the breath he hadn't noticed he'd been holding out in a whistle from between clenched teeth. "Damn, that's fast"

Mr B nodded, his awe showing in his eyes "Beats number 225 by four minutes eighteen" They peered at the screen, marked 237.

The engine was complete on the table (well, she wasn't going to just leave it there, useless and broken).

Aurelia was trying, and failing, to remove the door hinges with a screw driver.

"This one might be interesting after all" observed Mr A.

* * *

"Are you Kathryn Samson?" A young woman, who couldn't have been much older than 17 or 18 was adrift in a sea of baby toys. She was a very tall girl, at least six foot and yet mountains of dolls and things in the hallway reached almost as high as her knees.

She looked tired and stressed and to top off the picture there were three small children clinging to her legs and a television screaming out cartoons at top volume in the background. She sighed "What do you want?"

"Miss Samson, we're looking for any information you can give us on the disappearence of Miss Aurelia Singh..." The door slammed shut in their faces.

John moved to knock again, but Sherlock stopped him. The young lady's eyes had jumped open in shock, if only for a micro-second, when she had heard her friend's name. He had seen that look of terror recently.

He'd seen it on Bryanne Singh's face.

The door creaked open a crack as they began to make their way down the driveway. "'Scuse me Mister" the voice was squeaky and young. They turned. A small boy of about five or six years old stood in the doorway, clutching a toy fire-engine.

"Auntie Reli was scared the other day. She said... don't look at the silver car. Did the silver car take her?" John opened his mouth to ask what he meant, but the boy was dragged back in by his hand and the door slammed shut again.

As they walked away again they could hear muffled arguements coming from behind the door. Someone was crying. It sounded more like an adult than a child.

* * *

Aurelia was thinking 'all that glitters is not gold'. What the hell was that suppose to mean?

* * *

_:) Thanks for reading. It gets better, I promise. Remember, reviews are love (:_


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